Imagine a world where everyone loves one another, and there's plenty of everything to go around. Congratulations. While you were in your head smelling tulips from the safety of your imaginary dress, and then probably kissing Brendan Frasier, Erik and I were in LA doing the opposite of kissing -- being at E3.

Above: A shot of Erik and I getting gas filled teeth, only you have to pretend Stevie Case is Erik, and John Romero is a gas station attendant. And while you're at it, pretend I'm shooting kickass lasers out of my eyes and that Erik is in a bikini.

LA is a warmup for the apocalypse. There's not enough water, it's covered in a dome of toxic smoke, electricity doesn't work, and a full tank of gas is worth enough to kill a man over. Gas in LA costs about $98.45 a gallon. Their gas stations don't even give receipts anymore. When you fill up, an electronic voice laughs at you and prints out a picture of a baby, indicating that you owe them one live human baby. This is different from the system in Brazil where you have to take home one of the attendants extra babies every time you fill your tank.

Slowly coming to a stop costs several thousand dollars in gas, so we had the idea to start jumping out of still-moving cabs. Erik broke his head, pelvis, and vagina, but we each saved enough money to get the new LA status symbol -- a gas filled tooth.

Brave outspoken rocker, Bono, says "NO" to violent hate crime.

The LA airport is where all the horrors of LA go after they've trained to be the best. But besides the general Mad Max dangers of it, they've started insulting people over the loudspeaker. Every four seconds a voice booms, "YOU ARE NOT REQUIRED TO GIVE MONEY TO SOLICITORS. THEIR ACTIONS ARE NOT SPONSORED BY THE AIRPORT." Who is that announcement for? I know what a fucking solicitor is, airport. Your speaker might as well say, "SOLICITORS ARE NOT ICE CREAM. OR CHOO CHOO TRAINS." And if somehow there really was someone that stupid in the airport, let the guy doing the announcement leave the microphone and drive behind them in a little cart so he can personally give them advice while they crawl around on their retarded mutant flippers. And while I'm on the subject of taking personal offense at public announcements, why do U2 songs keep telling me not to kill people because of their color? I don't even do that, you stupid dicks. Sometimes when they come on I scream back at the radio, "Hey Bono, why don't you stop lighting hitchhikers on fire?" and then change the station to someone who gives less insulting advice like, "You've got to Move it! Move it!"

"I'm sorry sir. Both the captain and his assistant deputy captain have informed me that you didn't buy a flower from any of the fruitcakes at the terminal. This airline requires you to pay tribute to all Earth gods, including author L. Ron Hubbard. We're going to have to ask you to wait on the ground until their people's Justice Cowboy can come and properly tear your flesh off, for all eternity."

The one thing that sets LA apart from other versions of the apocalypse is that none of their panhandlers can form words. Maybe I'm lucky to come from a city where government rats don't eat the tongues out of sleeping hobos, but I couldn't understand a thing those mole people were saying. One hari krishna came up to me and said word-for-word, "Smibble moofn moof."

I pretended to look in a nonsense-to-English dictionary which was actually a novel based on the Super Mario Brothers, and then took a crap in his bucket, normally an eight dollar value. And if you're reading this from LA, that means I "powdered my nose" in his bucket, pussy. I could tell from the mean look he gave his bucket that I'd broken some sort of airport taboo, or at least misunderstood what "Smibble moofn moof" meant. I'd still rather take shit on an angry hari krishna than in an evil robotic airport toilet, even if that hari krishna was a barrel of alligators.

You might think I was rude, but it's not like I defecated on someone important's bucket. The guy's only job was wanting free money, and he wasn't even good at that. And say for a minute he worshipped a god that did give him the ability to talk, it's not like he was saying something profound like "My ancestor's tears tell me you will soon receive a promotion." He was probably saying, "I want a dollar! Also, I'm legally required to tell you that I've been convicted of having sex with dead animals. Three times." Here's something else to think about: even in whatever country hari krishnas come from, screaming at people as they run away pulling up their pants doesn't help clean the shit out of your bucket.